


Safekeeping

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Caretaking, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Discipline, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Older Man/Younger Woman, Past Sexual Abuse, Protectiveness, Recovery, Romance, Tag Clarification in Author's Note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-12-30 18:50:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12114984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: Stannis Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, believes that the late Queen Selyse, who had not given him a surviving heir, was poisoned by someone in King's Landing. Not trusting any daughter of the schemers of the south for his next queen, he has little choice but to reluctantly ask Ned Stark for Sansa's hand, knowing that if she is anything like her aunt he shall have to keep a firm hand on her lest the realm be plunged into rebellion once more."This is your tower room," he says, as he unlocks the door with the key from the chain around his neck, "where you shall be protected."





	Safekeeping

**Author's Note:**

> This is a canon-divergent AU where Stannis took the throne after Robert died of a broken heart (and a drinking session) after he found out that Lyanna had died. Shireen was not born in this AU and Selyse did not take up with a red priest because she was under scrutiny as queen.
> 
> Sansa has been aged up to her late teens.
> 
> ***content note: I've tagged this as 'Domestic Discipline' because that's the general vibe although there is no actual 'disciplining' in this fic. The 'Past Sexual Abuse' tag refers to unwanted groping and comments that Sansa received before the story begins, and which she remembers but not explicitly. Also, Stannis expresses some Westeros-typical slut-shaming beliefs about Lyanna and other women.
> 
> Also, if you want a visual for this fic, I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/165576488982/stannis-baratheon-lord-of-the-seven-kingdoms)

 

 

The names, the prospective wives, that his small council suggests are not acceptable. Daughters of Houses he knows still scheme against him; wilful, ambitious women and frivolous girls who have spent their childhoods at court learning how to manipulate, how to dissemble.

And the impudence of some of the members of his council to even suggest particular future wives when Stannis is sure one of them is responsible for poisoning his first wife, though the maesters say it was but an ordinary fever that had led to her death.

Selyse had been an acceptable wife, even though she did not give him the heir that she was supposed to, or any children; she was dutiful and serious and above all honourable. He had never had any concerns that her eyes might wander, that she might be led astray. He had never in fact really thought about this concern at all when he married young but now that he is older – now that he knows how dishonourable most people are, has observed other marriages and had other women seduce him; now that he, like the rest of the realm, knows how one woman's folly, her fickle heart, might bring Westeros almost to ruin – he is _concerned_.

Yet he would not wish to go without a wife, not only because he desires, needs, heirs, but also because he believes a man without a wife is but half a man. He believes, he hopes not naively, that a marriage can be good for both parties involved, that it can be consoling, comforting, even pleasurable. But this depends on the wife he chooses, the wife he shall spend the rest of his life with, the future mother of his children.

 

Sansa Stark is not an obvious choice at first, for his small council know of his dissatisfaction with Ned, and his loathing of her aunt; and the north is _already_ allied with the Baratheon's through the rebellion, through the brotherly love that Robert and Ned bore each other.

"Yet," one of his councillors says, after mentioning her name a few weeks into the marriage discussions, "Ned is getting older and his heir Robb Stark may come to power soon. Will he be dutiful? Will he bear the same love for the Baratheons as his father?"

It is a palpable concern, sons so often grow into men who wish to overstretch the bounds of their father's achievements.

The Starks are not schemers, this is the overwhelming draw for Stannis himself when he thinks of marrying her. Sansa's mother bore five healthy children, this is another important mark in her column.

"She is beautiful," one of the councillors says, and Stannis regards him with a frown.

"Beauty is no promise of dutifulness or motherhood, a beautiful woman will not necessarily make a good wife."

 _"_ Aye, but it can help," the councillor retorts and Stannis grits his teeth at having to include this reprehensible man on his council at all.

"She is young," his Hand, says, "might she be too young yet to be a queen?"

He always takes the thoughts of Hand seriously, but he is wrong in this, "a young wife is one that can be moulded, guided, by her husband," he says, and sees nods around the table although Davos still appears concerned.

After many days discussion, Stannis is decided; he will marry Sansa Stark; and he sends a raven to Ned Stark to state his intentions.

 

A few moons later, he makes his way swiftly north to Winterfell with his retinue; stopping in the bare minimum of places he is required to; in order to firm up alliances over tedious feasts, to make judgements and solve problems that could not be solved through ravens or by another person in his stead.

His Hand asks him, quietly as they are nearing the keep on horseback, whether he is nervous.

"No," he retorts, quickly, but then adds, "I am concerned, impatient perhaps. The realm needs a queen."

"And you need a wife," Davos says, with a little smile that he does not answer. "You will be...gentle with her, won't you, Your Grace."

"An impertinent comment, Lord Hand," he replies, hands creaking around the reigns of his horse.

"She is young, Your Grace,"

"I am aware of that."

"You can be quite forceful, in your manner, Your Grace, quite demanding in your wishes."

"She is a noble lady, I will treat her thus. And a king is free to demand anything that he believes is his due. I do not approve of the implications of your tone."

"It is a while since you have courted a young lady," Davos presses on, risking his wrath.

"Your concern is unwarranted," he says, as the towers of Winterfell come into view, those thick stone walls which have sheltered inside them the girl who is to be his next wife.

 

*

 

Stannis is travelling to Winterfell to meet her and, should the betrothal go ahead, she will journey down to King's Landing some moons later to marry him and be his queen.

Sansa is terrified. Not so much because he is king - though being made a queen, having to perform everything a queen should do at court, concerns her too - but because he is a man. Because she will be married at all.

Sansa does not trust men, or boys over a certain age, whether they be from Winterfell, King's Landing, or anywhere else; she has not done since she grew older, and even more so after she flowered.

They watch her, have watched her, with hungry looks in their eyes, blatantly, shamelessly, as if they want her to do things she does not want to do, as if they expect things from her that she does not want to give.

At the beginning she had asked her mother, and her septa, what she might do to have them stop looking at her and they had replied that the men could not help it, that she was beautiful, that she must do all she can to turn their lusts away - and yet when questioned further they had no specific guidelines to do this, beyond make sure her conduct is above reproach, to be courteous, to dress modestly, to never be alone with another man, to never speak to a bastard or sit too close to an unmarried man.

Yet what should she do if men talk to her, what should she do if they do not listen to her courtesies, if they find her when she is alone, how can she get them to leave if they do not listen to her asking them to, what can she do if they use dances as an excuse to paw at her and say horrible things to her, what can she do if they grab her in the corridors, pull her into the shadows to touch her over her dress, even though she does not want it, even though she has given no signs that she might ever want it.

She learns quickly that the rules her mother and septa gave her were not satisfactory, that all her efforts and wishes are worth naught against the efforts and desires of men.

She is still a maiden, has yet to be touched on skin that normally lies beneath her clothes, but she still feels _bruised_ by men, mistreated, tarnished by their looks.

The enjoyment she took in her appearance as a young girl has been leeched by them. Not even the compliments of other girls – who she would prefer, apart from her family, to only spend her time with – are enough to obscure their the looks and comments of men on her dresses, her hair, her form.

She dreamed as a child of great romances; of knights and heroes, and beautiful ladies, of love. She wished her life to be a song – not recognising at that age that the women in these songs were also mistreated; only concentrating on the hero, the knight, that might free them from this mistreatment, whose love might save them.

She has learned too soon that life is not a song; that there will be no honourable man, carrying a sword or wearing a crown, who might ride in to save her.

 

*

 

They said that she would be beautiful and he finds that they have not lied.

But Lyanna Stark was also said to be comely - though surely not, he thinks, quite so handsome as her niece, whose blue eyes are startling and clear, whose hair is like a curtain of fire – and Lyanna brought the realm to its knees.

He wishes, once again, that he might be able to see inside a person, to know their character instantly, to know in advance if they will disappoint him. He is not a trusting person and having to trust in a woman he does not know is almost painful.

She is courteous, he sees that from their very first meeting in the courtyard at Winterfell. Her manner is composed, her voice pleasant when he greets her. Yet her hand seems so small in his own, so light; her eyes wide, almost he thinks, like a nervous doe.

He feels an odd protectiveness for her already and is somewhat frustrated with himself for this, for he must find out more about her character before he makes a vow to protect her. He must watch her closely to see if she watches other men, and he has asked his Hand to do this too, even when Stannis himself is not present. For it is when backs are turned, when husbands are busy, that certain women and wives will take the opportunity to stray.

He is pleased when he finds, and Davos affirms, that she does not look at other men, that she does not approach them or speak to them of her own accord.

Her parents have told him that she is a dutiful girl but all parents say that about their children, he imagines Brandon would have said that about Lyanna when Robert asked.

Her septa says that she is pious but that is not a quality he values highly in a wife, and he found the piety of his last queen uncomfortable in its passion. Sansa will not be allowed to bring this septa with her, and shall be discouraged from having a close relationship with one at King's Landing.

 

He asks her parents for a private conference with her, and when they agree it seems to be with a slight reluctance which irritates him – he is a king, and a dutiful man, do they think he means to mistreat her in the short span of time he will spend in the same room as her? What kind of a man do they think he is?

It is important for him to talk with her alone to get a true measure of her character, to not have her look to her parents; because this marriage shall only be between the two of them, and any concerns needs must be worked out between only the two of them.

He tells her what he will expect from her, because he believes it is important to be forthright, that people cannot follow rules they do not know of,

"I will always treat you as a wife, a queen, deserves to be treated," he says as they stand a few feet away from each other in the glass gardens he chose as a location free of other people's influences or connotations, "I shall guard and protect you from all others, I shall not harm you or hurt you. And yet, as my wife I am responsible for your care, you are subservient to my better judgement, my rule. I expect to be listened to, obeyed, though I shall never ask you to do something that will harm you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Grace," she says, and dips her head. The light through the glass seems to make her skin glow from within, odd though this thought is.

"And if you do not, should you fail to follow the rules that are there for your own protection, should you disappoint me," he says, "you will be chastised in a manner that will not cause you any lasting harm, and will lose any freedoms that you have previously gained through good conduct, for a period of time of my discretion."

He watches her closely, carefully; for signs that she will immediately chafe at his rule; for wilfulness. If she does not believe she can abide by these, more than reasonable, conditions, if she rejects him now, he fears this marriage cannot be successful and she will only be the broodmare he knows that her father thinks Stannis wishes her to be.

 

*

 

Sansa listens carefully to what her betrothed has said; in their private meeting amongst the plants and flowers of this, one of her favourite sanctuaries at Winterfell; and watches his stern eyes, the firmness of the gaze he sets on her.

During his visit he has yet to drag those same eyes down her form, yet to let them linger at her waist or her breasts. He has yet to make any comment on her appearance except that she is as beautiful as they said she was – but when he said this he sounded more like a man who had received a shipment of fine tapestries that he had ordered to his specifications, rather than a man who had a maiden presented to him for his approval, and something in her liked this tone, this notion of herself as a beautiful object and not a woman of flesh and blood, though of course she hopes they do not have a cold marriage either, she would like children, she would like to someday be touched by someone that she had grown to love, as she had wished when she listened to songs in her youth, before the thought of a husband became frightening.

Catelyn said that Stannis would be hard to love, but that it was her duty to love him. Sansa has always wished to be dutiful, above all else. And love is not lust that seems to spark up in an instant in others towards her, love can come slowly, can be built. She can, she believes, encourage herself to fall in love with this king who she hopes, cannot help but hope, is true to what he has said.

His rules are fair, yet in this initial summary a little too vague for her liking. She hopes he will be amenable to explaining these strictures further, to help her be as dutiful as they both wish her to be.

"I will obey you in all things, Your Grace, it will be my honour to do so," she says and curtseys.

 

*

 

He searches her face for falseness but finds only a sweet sincerity. Could she be as obedient, as dutiful, as she seems? He shall not believe it until he has seen her walk the unsteady ground of life at court that so many before her have stumbled upon.

The betrothal is announced and, after the necessary feast, he is free to leave for King's Landing, and he bids his farewell to his betrothed, feeling impatient for her to join him in a few moons times.

She must prepare herself for marriage and so must he. There is a dowry to agree upon; there are ruffled feathers of other Houses who wish he had chosen their own daughters, to soothe at the behest of his hand; gifts to order; and additions he wishes to make to the architecture of his rooms at the Red Keep. There are also preparations of a more personal kind to make.

Stannis is not a fool. He knows that intimacies, that lovemaking, will be an important part of a successful marriage for a beautiful young maiden like Sansa. He will not set her up to fail, to have her eyes drawn away from him, for that would be unfair. Selyse did not, he learned over the years, have the capacity to feel desire for anyone, let alone her husband, but Selyse was unusual in this. And when he hears of men who have been cuckolded; mature men who have let their guts go, who drink each night until they are rancid and cruel, who let their own eyes and hands wander elsewhere, who have lost interest in pleasing their wives; he knows that they have only themselves to blame. Each party in a marriage deserves for the other to mind themselves, and each wife deserves to be pleased in recompense of the restrictions that come with her position.

Thus, he does not feel shame when he asks his Hand to bring to him three of the best whores directly from Lys so that he might ask them how to best please his wife.

Davos goes quite red when he gives this order, saying that it would not do for his betrothed to hear that he had taken lovers before their marriage and when he corrects him, and explains that he will not actually be _touching_ these women, the man goes silent in agreement. It is a cost to pay, the money that will buy their time and their silence after they have left King's Landing, but what cost is too much to guarantee a successful marriage.

 

Just before he had left Winterfell, a girl who professed to be Sansa's closest friend and who he had seen often in her company, a Jeyne Poole, had the impertinence to approach him and tell him that Sansa was _delicate_ and that he should take great care with her.

He had rebuked her for talking to him thus, for the tone of her message, but her words had remained in his thoughts. And when he asks the three whores what they think of them they tell him that perhaps his betrothed has been mistreated in her youth – a word, an idea, that brings him to an instant fury, such that he must leave the keep immediately and ride his horse for many miles until man and beast are both exhausted, lest he grab his sword and hack at all around him.

A man's duty is to protect his wife, to care for the women in his life. A man that misuses the trust placed in him, his position of authority, is the very worst of men. Stannis has still not forgiven his brother for not preventing the dishonouring, debasing, of Queen Elia and her children; he thinks of it every time he remembers his brother, it has blackened completely his already dismal opinion of the man Robert had grown to be.

When Stannis returns from his ride the women seem remorseful, they tell him that they do not think she has lost her innocence, that certainly no one had dared to take her maidenhead; that it would not be the young maiden's fault were others to say things to her, or touch her in ways she did not wish. But he finds that he had been thinking more on the men who would do such a thing, on their lack of honour and the punishments they deserved, than any culpability of her own.

He must treat her carefully, the women say, which makes him angry for how else would he treat his own wife; and any intimacy in the bedchamber should be approached slowly, they say.

He is interested, from a scholarly point of view, in the methods they explain to him, the diagram they draw of a woman's parts, the pleasures they assure him that women can achieve. He has always found it immensely gratifying to learn new skills, and he vows to be dutiful in satisfying his future wife in this area.

 

*

 

A large part of her is pleased to be leaving Winterfell, leaving the scene of so many unpleasant memories, even as she knows that men, and customs, are the same elsewhere.

What remains of the child who had longed for songs, and heroes, is thrilled to be journeying to King's Landing and court; but her older self is rightfully nervous. It was rumoured that the last queen had been poisoned, and it is certainly true that the Red Keep has never been the safest of places for royal women. Her parents have told her to keep vigilant, her mother has warned her that almost everyone will attempt to use her in their plots, that the women at court are not to be trusted either though Sansa had been able to trust many women at Winterfell.

 _If you do not allow yourself to be used in these designs, they will come to learn that you cannot be used to get to your husband_ , her mother had said, but surely, Sansa thinks, she does not have to consent to be included in a scheme, they will use her regardless of her wishes. Sansa does not wish to scheme, to have people plotting about her, she only wishes now to be a good wife, to feel protected like the king swore she would be.

 

Despite what her new husband had professed – despite her father saying, with a little reluctance she couldn't help but hear, that Stannis was a dutiful man above all else, that he would not harm her – Sansa has been frightened of the wedding night, and as she sips on the water that has been set in front of her at the wedding feast, as she sits next to the broadness of her stern husband, the king, her insides tremble with fear like a fire that cannot be put out.

Yet she knows that he a possessive man; she believes that he is a man who will brook no insults to his person, nor insults to her, being now under his care; so at least she can trust that no other man should mistreat her, as they had at Winterfell where she had no husband to look after her, to protect her. And she has heard that he only visited Selyse's bedchamber but once a month, which shall not be too hard to bear, she hopes; although she would like to have him in her bed more often than that if it gives her a greater chance of having his children sooner, for she so longs to be a mother, to do her duty in this fashion to her husband and to the realm.

There is no bedding, for which she is overwhelmingly grateful. Jeyne, who Stannis had written to Sansa to invite to bring with her to King's Landing to Sansa's great relief and who is currently her only lady-in-waiting, squeezes her arm in fortitude before Stannis takes her hand in his.

His hand is warm, she thinks, as they walk through the halls in silence towards his bedchamber; and his grip is certain, firm.

She is expecting to have her clothes torn from her, expecting to be mounted like all the men and boys said she would be one day, but he encourages her to take a seat in front of the fire instead, and pours them both lemon water (for she has noticed that he never seems to drink, which she approves of, having seen the way drink can turn men lascivious, make them lose their courtesies, and is happy to not drink either for she does not like its ability to blur memories).

He tells her, to her great shock, that they will not consummate the marriage tonight, and he assures her, when she expresses concern, that as king he does not _have_ to do anything. They are strangers to each other, he explains, and it is best that intimacy be something that grows slowly, that builds upon a foundation of respect and confidence in the other.

His words only seem to falter once, when she asks if she does not please him, but he eventually replies, with great forcefulness, that she is most pleasing and, he believes, is indeed the most beautiful maiden in Westeros as all have said, though of course this fact cannot be corroborated; and she feels warmed inside by the apparent sincerity of his words.

Yet since the marriage is not consummated, he explains, she must be kept separated from the keep, from the rest of King's Landing, for propriety, her own protection.

He looks at her after he says this, as if she is going to argue with his words, but instead she is curious.

How will she be kept separate, she asks, and he takes her hand and leads her to the heavy door in his bedchamber cloaked by a luxurious velvet curtain which he pulls aside.

He unlocks the door with a key he has kept on a chain around his neck hidden underneath his clothes, and she feels an odd satisfaction, a shivery excitement, by the sound of the key in the lock, the click and clunk of it turning. As they pass by the door and he leads her by the hand up the winding stairs, she notices that the door itself is almost a handswidth in thickness, and the lock the largest she has ever seen, and she imagines that no worldly force could break it down.

"This is your tower room," he says as they enter the opulent interior, "where you shall be protected."

"Like the Maidenvault," Sansa says.

"Somewhat akin to that," he replies, "though this does not have a servants quarter, it has only the one entrance, through my own rooms, and its shape is quite hidden from the outside of the Red Keep, it does not advertise itself. Added to that, this room has proper plumbing," he points her to the adjoining room which contains a large bath with a tap, and other facilities.

"How might supplies be brought up to the tower room?" she asks, still holding his hand as he leads her around and she touches the fine furnishings of the large four-poster bed, the couch and armchairs; fingers the decorations on the walls and surfaces; brushes her hand against the wardrobe, the chests containing her belongings that have been brought up here during the day, the tables and mirrors, the two potted rose plants.

He shows her a hollow in the wall with a pulley that can carry food and water and laundry; and, pressing down on the platform, reveals how it will not be able to take the weight of a person, if a person could even be found that were small enough to fit in the chimney.

Any food or drink that is given to her will be tasted beforehand by three members of his household, including one member of each noble house whose station will rotate every moon.

"I myself can also bring you anything you require by the steps from my room; and a maidservant who has served me faithfully since I was a boy will be allowed entrance every few days to clean and collect your linens; and you may also have the company of your lady Jeyne, though not at all hours for you shall sleep here alone," he says.

"Will I have the pleasure of your company here too, Your Grace?" she asks.

"Of course. I shall visit you in the mornings when we shall share breakfast here together, and in the evenings after dinner when we may talk and our intimacies shall progress at a rate that is comfortable to you."

He waits as if she is going to profess her disagreement with his words, his calm orders, but her mind is pleasantly blank, free of the usual whirl of thoughts and worries.

"Once the marriage has been consummated," he says, "we shall talk about what your duties might be as queen, of your own court and charitable occupations, but for now I would like you to think of yourself as simply wife rather than political figure, if that explanation does not cause any offense, for I do not wish it to."

"No, Your Grace," she says, "it is a comforting notion, for I am still young and unpractised at many things, unknowledgeable and, I fear, somewhat unprepared, to be the kind of queen you and the realm might expect. I should dearly like to please you as a wife first, as I believe that this will be my first duty. It is not wrong to think so, is it? I know that I should be dutiful to the realm above all but you are the figurehead of the realm, its soul, are you not?"

He looks pleased at her comment, and at her question. "I believe so too, my lady. As king and queen, our marriage is the cornerstone of our rule. It pleases me that you might wish to find satisfaction in this role. Just as I wish to be a good husband for you, to protect you and guide you, that you might be protected and guided."

She smiles at him happily, content that they appear to have reached a satisfactory accord; pleased that he has not touched her, that he wishes this marriage to be a success and not just a duty, that he seems _thoughtful_ above all else, caring.

She feels at this moment, in her tower – even though they barely know each other, even though she stands in the very middle of the Red Keep with its schemers and plots and dangers – safer than she has done since she was a small child.

He does not smile back at her, he does not seem to be the kind of man who ever smiles, but she believes that can see a hint of satisfaction in the corner of his mouth. He bows at her then but stops just before the door, remembering something else.

"If you should like to send any ravens you may give them to me when I visit you," he says, "I shall, of course, as your husband and king, be reading them before they are sent off."

She nods, "I shall be thankful for your attention and advice, Your Grace. I would not want to inadvertently say something that may cause misunderstandings or have an effect that I did not foresee, not having the experience you do in political affairs."

"I am glad that you understand," he says, and then takes her hand in his and raises it to his lips to kiss.

He does not take his eyes off her, he has not taken his eyes off her since they left their table at the feast, and even during the feast she felt his gaze on her most of the time but it did not hurt her like the gaze of other men. His lips on her skin tickle pleasantly, and she feels herself blush, though it does not feel like the usual shamed blush of her youth, but something new.

He leaves her in the room and brings back jugs of water and trays of food in case she gets hungry in the night; and shows her the golden rope by her bed that will ring a bell in his room, should she have need of him.

He wishes her a good night, for it is very late already after the long feast, and leaves, closing the door at the top of the stairs, which does not have a lock, behind him. She tiptoes over to it and listens to his steady footsteps walking down the spiral stone staircase to the other door and his bedchamber beyond. For a moment she feels concerned that he will simply close this lower door but with a strange sense of rightness, she hears the clink and clunk of the key turning in the lock. She breathes out a breath she did not know she held and turns around to regard her new room, her sanctuary.

Her sleep that night is a peaceful one and she is woken up at dawn by several birds who perch outside the four narrow stained glass windows that break up the circular stone of the room. Last night she did not have a candle, though she often needed one to sleep at Winterfell, and the dark had felt comforting, small, not frightening as it had before. For no one could come in and disturb her, the dark could not hide any horrors.

There is a gown waiting for her in the wardrobe of a pale yellow velvet, trimmed with pearls, that fastens with two golden stags heads – it hangs next to ten new dresses that she has never seen before, and that she daren't try on just yet – and it is this gown she wears over her night shift as she waits for her husband to join her to break their fasts.

She took her hair down last night, although she usually wears it in a plait while sleeping. She usually wears it tucked up in a plait all the time, but had taken it down while Stannis was visiting Winterfell because she knew that men found the cape of her hair pleasing. She feels safe enough - odd though she knows this word is, to refer to the manner in which she chooses to wear her hair - to not put it up now, to not hide it away.

 

*

 

He finds it difficult to sleep that first night. Although there is satisfaction at the awareness of his wife tucked up in the room above him, to which only he holds the key; there is also a kind of excitement, similar he thinks with some bafflement, to the excitement he felt as a boy when he had been gifted a new horse or a bow, a beautiful book, but was not allowed his childish wish to sleep alongside such a gift – his mother had chastised him once when they found him sleeping in a stall of the stables alongside his new horse, after frantically searching throughout the entire keep for him.

He hopes that she slept better than him, and when he unlocks the door and walks up with their tray of breakfast, when he knocks on and then opens the door at the top and finds her waiting for him looking refreshed and calm, he is glad that it appears she did.

She is wearing one of the gowns he bought her, in a variation of the yellow of his House, and it pleases him immensely to see her thus. Her hair is loose and curling at its tips around her shoulders, her feet are in the soft golden slippers he left by the bed for her, and the pure white lace of her night shift revealed by the front of her gown is a pleasing compliment to the paleness of her skin.

He is pleased by her, pleased again that this morning vision is one that only he shall ever see.

 

If the court thinks it strange that she does not make an appearance in front of them these first few moons, that she does not share dinner with the king and whoever else he must share dinner with that particular evening, they do not say anything to him; though some have been overheard to suggest that it is his longing for a child that keeps her secluded, that he does not wish anything to prevent her from conceiving.

The people of King's Landing say that he is smitten with love for her, and that is why she has not left the keep yet, according to Davos, who adds that it has endeared the smallfolk to him. Stannis would rather the smallfolk dutifully follow his rule without needing their mercurial approval too, but he has learned over the years that this can be a useful tool.

Davos had been angry when he first heard about the tower room, and made no attempt to hide it when he came barging in to the solar where Stannis was working alone at his desk some time before the wedding.

"You will lock her away in a tower. You would make a prisoner of your _wife_ , of the _queen_. She has done nothing to deserve this, she is just a girl," his Hand had said, fists clenching, impassioned in a way he had barely ever seen.

"I shall not lock her away, I shall protect her," he had said, after he finished the letter he was writing and had put it to one side.

"Imprisonment is not protection."

They stare at one another. "Do you think I am a man who might mistreat women, Lord Hand?"

"No, Your Grace, but this is not the right way to start a marriage. This is not what you did for your first wife."

"Selyse was not beautiful, she was not the niece of Lyanna Stark."

"You would punish the girl for the crimes of her aunt?"

"I must repeat, it is not a punishment. I am only trying to help her, to help our marriage."

"A strange marriage when one holds the key and the other is locked behind a door."

"Enough, you have made your grievances clear," he had paused, and taken out another letter, considering what to say next. "As Hand, you serve the king but it can be argued that you also serve the realm,"

"Is the realm not the king, is its interests not his interests, Your Grace. Is everything you have previously asserted not true?" Davos retorted, still angry.

Stannis had not responded to the tone of his words because Davos was owed some leniency for his long faultless service, and he appreciated that Davos was concerned on behalf of the lady Sansa - Davos will be the only man, he knows, that he will ever eventually trust in his wife's company.

"As I was saying," he said slowly, "there are some who might suggest that it is also your duty to help me be a good king, to guide me and I appreciate this role, your ability to...question my decisions on the rare occasion in which they may do a disservice to the realm. But I would ask you to trust me in this, to trust that I know how to make a good marriage with my betrothed, that what I do is necessary and that I do not wish her harm."

"But harm can be done even without the motive of doing thus."

"She will have all the comforts she desires," he argued, "the companionship of her lady-in-waiting from Winterfell, my close attention, my honour. I will treat her as a wife, and a queen, should be treated. That is all that shall be said on the manner, you may take your leave, Lord Hand."

 

Davos is not quite so angry with him now, with the tower, though he does still seem wary and unconvinced.

"How is the queen?" he will ask of Stannis, often.

"She is well," he will reply, "she is pleasing to me," he might occasionally add.

 

*

 

When Sansa had thought of her marriage to Stannis, to a king, she had not imagined they would spend so much time together - twice a day every day for some hours – nor that she would have the time to speak so openly with him.

 _He has been king for many years_ , her mother had counselled her, _he will be set in his ways and will not need your guidance, though you must still do everything you can to help him, to comfort him as a wife should_.

Yet Stannis has implied to her that she will help him rule eventually, once she is a good wife and she has learned how to be a good queen. And he does begin to share some of his concerns with her - a delegation whose wives are unhappy with their lodgings, a festival in King's Landing whose crowds he fears will become too numerous, arguments about a marriage contract for a minor lord, a reward for a servant who saved the life of a member of his small council.

Although it is Sansa herself, and her future conduct, her position at court, her role as wife and queen, that take up much of the conversation these first few moons.

Stannis, she learns, has strict guidelines for her, rules, but they are not given once and then expected to be followed blindly; like the cruelly vague strictures of her mother and septa at Winterfell, such as _do not let a man dishonour you_ , or _be a lady in all things._

Stannis accepts any number of her questions and requests for clarifications, without any hint of frustration. It seems to only please him, her concern about following them correctly. _What if it is a foreign dignitary_ , she asks, _what if the keep is under siege_ , _what if you get ill_ , _what if there is a fire_ , _what if another woman is in peril_ , _what if I wake and I have lost my sight_ , _what if the dragons return_ , _what if you do not reach me in time_. No question of hers is taken lightly, no scenario too fanciful or childish, there are none that he cannot think of an answer for. And even when he tells her what she should do in any given situation he also stresses that the acts of others are not her responsibility, that it is his responsibility to keep her safe.

And it is this, his willingness to listen to all the secret worries of her whirling mind, his concern, that makes her trust him fully.

It is this which, added to the growing intimate pleasures he has brought her in the hours he visits her tower room - the kisses; deep and almost drugging; the touches, light and firm and overwhelming; his mouth running down her neck; his hands cupping her breasts; his fingers and lips and tongue between her thighs for many hours – makes it easy, pleasurable, makes it feel _right_ to her to give herself to him, to allow him to finally take her maidenhead.

 

*

 

Guarding his wife, his queen, when she makes trips out from her tower after their consummation, is a troubling matter. He does not trust the kingsguard with her, he trusts no man except Davos with her. In the many questions which Sansa had asked him about what he wished she was to do if she was approached, or touched, by another man, and in those words from her friend Jeyne seemingingly so long ago now, Stannis has sensed that his wife is not easy to trust men either, whether from direct experience or not he will not ask for fear of upsetting her, and himself, and shall instead try to find a satisfactory solution to this problem.

His Hand is the one who brings him part of the solution - a woman knight he has heard of, Brienne of Tarth, who is taller than most men, and better with a sword too. Stannis invites her to court and asks her to be the first member of Sansa's Queensguard, asking her too if she knows of other women like her who reside elsewhere in Winterfell.

Sansa herself, once he has informed her of her new Queensguard, mentions that the Mormont women are known for their ferocity and fighting skills and he is pleased to write to their House and ask them if a cousin or second daughter might come to court at the queen's pleasure, doubly so that it might forge more links between the crown and the north.

His wife also says that her sister Arya had been keen with a sword and a bow. He decides that Arya is still too young by a few years but that Sansa should write to her sister so that she might start training if it is something she wishes for the future.

The Sand Snakes, the daughters of Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, are well known for their skill at sparring, but Stannis' brother, the Usurper, helped cause their House the gravest of insults, which could hardly be lessened by Stannis' swift return of her bones after the fact. It has been a long time since Princess Elia's death but no time is long enough, he knows, to remove grief entirely from the breast. Yet Dorne would make a good ally, and its daughters good guards for his wife. He will think on inviting a delegation to court to take a measure of that land and its people.

The court is hurt, his small council says, by the fact that none of their daughters are included in the queensguard, or are members of Sansa's ladies-in-waiting, who currently number only one - Jeyne.

Stannis asks them if any of their daughters can fight, and they do not have a reply to that.

"As for the other ladies-in-waiting, the queen wishes to meet with some of the noble women of her own age and she will make her own decision after that–" Davos is signalling with his hand on the table "–and after my consultation with this council. But mark my words, my lords, there will be no disrespect tolerated as youthful folly from these prospective ladies-in-waiting, it is the queen's comfort, especially once she is with child, that I value above all else, as should you all."

 

It is hard at first to manage Sansa's time spent between her tower and the rest of the Red Keep, for both of them he believes. He is happy that she seems content to often stay in her tower for days at a time, that she finds it the sanctuary he wished it to be; and he feels that he should be the one to personally escort his wife when she leaves her tower before a second member of her queensguard arrives to join Brienne, with whom he is satisfied after seeing her beat two of his kingsguard in the training ground.

But it is not the Red Keep that he wishes to show his wife, it is further afield, and so he goes up to her room to wake her early one morning for a hawking trip in the woods beyond the walls of King's Landing.

She is still asleep, her hair curled and wild on her pillow like some girl from a song. He stares at her for a moment, wishes to reach out a hand to touch her soft cheek, kiss the pout of her lips.

Their time together in bed has been highly satisfying, for both of them he believes, and somewhat revelatory for him. Sometimes he worries he might lose his head, loving her, touching her; that he might lock _himself_ in here with her so that they can twine themselves together for days yet. The way her body welcomes him in, the way her hands clutch around his shoulders, the way she gasps and cries-

He shall wake her now, and not let his thoughts run away from him. He returns to the stairway and knocks on the door as if he has yet to enter, and she calls him inside in a sleepy voice. He helps her to dress, a new pleasure he has discovered with this second wife, and just as intimate he has found as undressing her.

He has had a hooded cloak made for her; it is grey like her father's House, with a golden silk lining and a fur trim. When she dresses in it and he sees her little smiling face peeking out of the hood he suddenly does not want for them to leave, he does not want to share this beauty, this precious gift of his, with anyone outside his rooms. Yet this trip has been planned and she has been told of it now, he does not want to disappoint her.

Brienne accompanies them, so too do the two members of his kinsguard he knows prefer the touch of men to that of women. They ride through the city, passing by those traders and travellers that are awake already at this hour, many of whom recognise their new queen by the company she keeps, and wave and bow at her. But soon enough, they are outside in the fresh air and he feels himself breathe easier, sit deeper in his horse. Sansa's hood blows back in the wind and he is transfixed by the sight of her riding alongside him, her hair streaming like a banner behind her.

The hawks and falconers are waiting for their party at the edge of the forest; and they enter the woods. Sansa has hawked before and he introduces her to his particular favourite bird, who she coos over and strokes very gently with a fingertip before its hood is removed.

As they wait for the bird to return to his arm, he tells her about his childhood goshawk Proudwing. The story seems to bring tears to her eyes; she has a tender heart, his wife.

 

*

 

Sansa likes to believe that she falls pregnant so soon after they first lie together because of the love she feels for him, the safety under his care, even though she knows that her mother got with child quickly too so it is probably just in her blood.

She does not have to wait to find out, like other women do, because she gets sick in the mornings almost immediately. Stannis is very concerned and spends much of his time in conference with various maesters and even wise women that his oldest maidservant suggest to him. Rest and plain food, a few select herbs, are the remedy according to them all.

The two of them scarcely have time, it seems, to celebrate her pregnancy, but after a few moons her symptoms disappear and it is then that the idea that she will bear his child seems to become real.

His last wife had been pregnant before, Jeyne says, but never gave birth to a child and Sansa prays that she follows her mother and not the first queen in this.

Jeyne is an important channel through which she learns more about life in the Red Keep, gossip and information beyond what Stannis tells her. Jeyne jokes that she is her spy but says that she enjoys her life here, especially the position she holds as closest lady-in-waiting to the queen. Sometimes Jeyne does impressions of noble women who feel they are debasing themselves by stooping to gain her favour and eventually Sansa has to pause the mummery in case, she fears, she makes water with her laughter.

The court are informed of her pregnancy and Stannis tells her that many gifts have been given but they will need checking before she can be given them personally. Davos, who she talks to occasionally in her husband's solar which is close to his room, says that people talk of little else except the future heir but Stannis frowns at him and she overhears him telling his Hand not to place the concerns of the entire court on his wife. That she should only be concerned with herself and the babe.

Sansa is happy to retreat to her tower and let her visits outside of the king's rooms trail away; and she spends her time sewing and embroidering clothes for her child, dreaming and praying.

And when her stomach gets too large and unbalanced for her to make it up the stairs to her room herself, when her ankles have swollen and her hips ache, her husband carries her carefully up and down in the morning; helping her to bathe in the evenings with the warm water that is piped in; reminding her each time, before he leaves her to sleep in the bed that now has a step to help her in and out of it, that the rope on the wall will call him instantly to her.

 

When she gives birth to his first child, a son he names Steffon, she sees tears in his eyes when he holds him.

Sansa herself cries lots in those first few moons: happy tears, proud tears, frustrated and tired tears; but the maesters have told her that this is just a normal rebalancing of the humours after birth and Stannis treats her as kindly as ever.

He has never once, she realises, rebuked her for any emotion she has felt or expressed in his company, that is not part of the obedience he wishes, if anything her emotions seem to act as a barometer for himself and his care towards her.

 _It pleases me when you come to me with your worries, and if I cannot soothe them I have only myself to blame_ , he tells her a few days after the birth when her breasts burned, and she feared they might never be able to lie together again because she could not sit down without pain, when she feared she might be a bad mother.

But she soon takes to being a mother, and the love she feels for her son - his big blue eyes so like his father's, the whirl of the black hair on the crown of his head – fills her with a great sense of peace and well-being.

When he is little and cannot walk, they put a crib for him up in her room, in addition to the one Stannis has next to his bed downstairs, and he has Jeyne and his old maidservant happily ferrying linens and food and amusements for his heir up and down the stairs during the day, so Sansa does not have to exert herself, so that feeding and raising her babe is all she has to do.

Davos had told her one day, when she was in the glass gardens with Steffon showing her babe the plants, and the king's Hand had stopped to talk to Brienne at the door, of the mothers he had seen on his travels who wore a sling to hold their babe, which reminded Sansa of the servants and smallfolk she had seen before, doing just so, even though she had not quite recognised the picture at the time. She sews this sling herself and, to Stannis' approval also, she delights in being able to walk around with her hands free and Steffon snuggled up safe at her breast, almost camouflaged sometimes by the cloaks and scarves she wears about her neck.

When Steffon is large enough to shuffle around and then to walk, Sansa does not take him up anymore to her tower room, and she herself stays most days in the same bedchamber as her husband downstairs, with Steffon in a crib and then a small bed, because she wants to keep that room as a sanctuary for her only.

 

*

 

Stannis was expecting tears at the birth, and after; remembering from his own mother that new motherhood could be emotional. He was not expecting, however, for his lord Hand to cry, but weep he did when he held little Steffon, while Stannis hovered, nervous to let another hold his precious heir.

"You've done well, Your Grace," Davos had said once he composed himself, and Stannis corrected him, for it was his wife that did all the work that brought his son into being.

His wife, who is as good a mother as he had come to believe she would be; his wife, who he loves more and more each day, even though he had thought that surely love was a finite emotion.

He wakes each morning thinking _I have a son, I have an heir,_ and when he is fourteen moons old (and Davos teases him lightly for marking his age thus, but every moon he has with his son is something to mark and marvel over) Sansa falls pregnant with their next child, her condition heralded by the same sickness as last time.

A lesser man would abandon his wife during these trying moons, would leave her care to maesters and servants, but he has always wished to be as good a husband as a king. Though he knows it is only by having a good wife, a good queen, that he may truly be thus, and he believes wholeheartedly that he has made the right choice of woman.

 

*

 

As the years pass and she gives him five children - three sons and two daughters – the strictures of their relationship naturally loosen, encouraged by the both of them equally; and the key to the tower room is kept in its lock, the door ofttimes kept open, and the room remaining empty more often than not, now that she shares his bedchamber since the children's rooms are on the same floor and they have need of her.

Stannis is confident in her love for him; her obedience and duty; her love for his children; and, after she has reluctantly agreed to train with some of her Queensguard, her ability to protect herself should the worst happen.

Sansa finds motherhood gives her confidence too – her competence in childrearing, the love of her children who look at the world with such awe, the way she can see herself through their eyes – and her unpleasant memories of her time at Winterfell fade like a sun-bleached tapestry; sometimes she feels too busy to worry about what the men around her are thinking of, odd as that is; and she has surrounded herself in the Red Keep by people she has learned over the years to trust.

Yet she is still soothed by his continued control, his care; the rhythms of their time in the bedchamber remain satisfyingly the same; she still feels his eyes on her whenever they are in a crowded room together, like a favourite guard dog; she knows that her and her children's safety is always uppermost in his mind.

And if things get too much – if a visiting dignitary has stared at her for too long, if bad dreams return for a few nights in a row, if she has had a chill and her defences feel weakened, or if it has simply been too long since her last confinement – she has only to take the key for the top tower room, with its heart-shaped handle and heavy golden chain, and hand it wordlessly to Stannis.

And as she rests in her tower room, in her self-chosen confinement; often taking time away from her children too who can be a little overwhelming, and who are left in the indulgent care of Jeyne and her other ladies-in-waiting; as she grazes on the many plates of rich foods brought up for her by the pulley; as she lounges on the softest four-poster bed, wearing the lightest of night dresses, her hair flowing freely down to her hips; dreaming and reading and embroidering something new for her dearest husband, her king; she knows that the door to her room can be opened by only one hand, and she feels the weight of his safekeeping like a warm glow in her chest.

She waits breathlessly for his knock on the door every sundown, for the click and clunk of the key opening and his footsteps on the stairs; waits to welcome her love, a King from the songs, into the bower of her dreams.

 

Stannis never asks for the key to the tower room but when it is given to him it feels like the greatest of gifts.

And as he sits on the throne, or in a tedious small council meeting, is led through a frustrating tour of the stores, or works up a sweat on the training grounds, he feels the weight of her key resting underneath his clothes, over his breastbone and warmed by his skin. The weight, he thinks sometimes, fancifully, of the heart of his love, his queen.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, I would love to know what people think!
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset for this fic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/165576488982/stannis-baratheon-lord-of-the-seven-kingdoms)


End file.
